


Follow Me Home

by rubygirl29



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Post Season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronon has been on Earth before, but it was never his home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> There are changes ahead for Ronon. Totally my decision, so I apologize if anybody is offended or upset. There will be an explanation at the end of the story.

**Follow Me Home**

Three weeks after Atlantis came home, Ronon was finally cleared to leave the city. The first two weeks had been spent recovering from the half-healed wound that had nearly been ... that _had_ been ... his death wound. The last week was to debrief him and to make sure there were no exotic Pegasus germs in his body.

The debrief had been more painful than his recovery. Teal’c had been there, and Sheppard. But they couldn’t say anything until the men with the medals on their chests and the representatives from the NID and the IOA had finished their questioning. Then his friends had spoken up; even General O’Neill had sent a letter of support.

Ronon spoke quietly, kept calm, caught Teal’c inclining his head in approval and John’s eyes with that bit of a crinkle at the corners that meant he was doing well. Then it was over, and there were smiles and nods, and the big man with more medal than the rest, General Landry, was holding out his hand and congratulating him.

An hour later, Ronon was packing his bags. He was free. Sheppard, unfamiliar in dark denim jeans and a black sweater, leaned against the wall, watching him. “It’s not like we’re  
moving out of the city,” he said. “Just spending a few days away.”

“I know.” He looked around as if he had forgotten something. This room had been his home for four years. He had his painting, his weapons, his souvenirs of Sateda. But the light was different, those things looked different, foreign in a way they never had before. “I’m ready,” he said.

“You’re okay with this, right?” Sheppard seemed uncharacteristically diffident.

Ronon frowned. “Yeah. I’ve been on Earth before.”

“First time with nobody shooting at us,” John smiled. “First time at my place.”

Ronon shouldered his pack. “I’m ready.” He sounded a lot more certain than he felt.

Sheppard’s condo was on a hillside outside of the city with a distance view of the bay and screened from his neighbors by pines. Ronon stepped inside and let his pack slide from his shoulders. “Nice view,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“I’ve seen better.” John opened the doors to the deck and went outside. He leaned against the rail, the wind ruffling his hair. There was still tension in his body, a hint of regret at the corner of his mouth.

Ronon joined him, slid his arm around Sheppard’s waist. He kissed his temple. “Nice view,” he said again, this time sure of what he meant, and Sheppard smiled, even though his eyes were still sad. He turned to Ronon. “We need food. Ever been to a grocery store?”

“No.”

“Brace yourself.”

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

It was a little frightening. So many lights,; the brilliant colors of vegetables, the music, the aromas of the prepared foods; so much food, so many choices. On Sateda, even in times of relative peace, there hadn’t been this abundance. It made his head ache.

“I need some air,” he said to Sheppard. “Meet you in the park by the bay in an hour. I won’t get lost.”

“Here.” Sheppard handed him some bills. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Ronon looked at the money. “How much is this?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“Okay.” He folded it, stuck it in his jean’s pocket. “See you.”

He walked, aware that he was attracting attention. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise, but there were no enemies, no Wraith here, just people looking at him with undisguised curiosity. Several blocks from the grocery store, he came across a street market; people selling handcrafts and old clothes, like they did on Sateda and other places he had been. His Earth clothes felt stiff, new. He walked up to a stall with a pretty girl behind the table selling t-shirst that were soft and would be loose, even on his big frame. He picked out two; one black, one blue.

When he handed her a bill, she looked up at him. “I can’t change that.”

“What?”

“It’s too much money.” Confused, he started putting the shirts down. “Wait, if you buy one more shirt, and ....” she turned away and pulled out a long scarf, “This would look awesome.” She held the scarf with its pattern of blue, black and plum tones against the t-shirts. “And then I can give you change.”

“Thanks, that’s a good idea,” he said, even though he was still trying to figure out exactly what she meant.

“Are you Rasta?” she asked.

“What?”

“Your dreads are cool.” She touched her hair. “You know, your hair.”

“No, I’m not ... Rasta.” She looked a little disappointed by his answer. Sheppard had told him a bit about the Rastafarians before their first trip to Earth in case he needed a cover story if anybody asked about his dreadlocks. He couldn’t tell the girl about Sateda, so he just handed her the bill and took back what was left ... change, she called it.

She handed him a bag with the shirts and the scarf in it. “Have a great day.”

“You, too.” He started walking down the street, passing other stalls. He used some of his money to buy some jewelry that had caught his eye, and a feather on a clip that he thought he might weave into his hair.

The sun was hot, and his head was starting to throb. His dreadlocks were heavy on his back. They hung nearly to his waist and sometimes he wondered if they were the cause of some of headaches that had been plaguing him for a while. He caught a glimpse of himself in a window. Even in Earth clothes, he looked alien, he thought. He was Satedan, he reminded himself, but Sateda was no more; his Satedan ‘friends,’ had betrayed him twice over to the Wraith, and now he wasn’t even in the same galaxy where he had been born.

He had told Sheppard that Atlantis was his home. He was with John. His heart was with him, his soul, his loyalty, his very life. Melena, the only other person who had any claim to his heart was dead and gone to ashes. Perhaps his old life was ashes as well. Ashes blew away in the wind. Sheppard was rock.

Ronon went over the the nearest merchant. “Where can I go to get my hair cut?” he asked.

^*^*^*^*^*^*

He felt light, vulnerable, without the heavy dreadlocks that had been his identity and his armor for as long as he could remember. Who was the stranger in the mirror? He touched the dark silky curls that brushed his shoulders. The last time his hair had been this short and free was the day he had left home for the army.

It was an hour since he had left the grocery store. He had to get to the park before Sheppard sent out a search party for him. He changed his t-shirt in the men’s room, looped the scarf around his neck, clipped the feather in his hair.He used the last of his money to pay the man who had struggled with the dreads. He’d earned it.

“Hey, man. You gonna miss that hair?” The barber asked as he started out the door.

Ronon paused, looked back at the remnants of his past. “No. I’m good with it.”

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Sheppard sat in nearly the same place he had been five years ago as he had weighed the pros and cons of accepting Weir’s offer of a place on the Atlantis expedition team. His whole life had balanced on the flip of a coin, though truth be told, if it hadn’t gone his way he would have kept at it until it did.

He sighed, looked at his watch. Ronon was late. He’d give him another five minutes before he started thinking about the trouble the Satedan could get into on his own. He gazed out at the sun dancing on the waters of the bay, checked his watch again, and turned slightly. A man was walking towards him; Sheppard blinked. He knew that graceful prowl of a walk, the breadth of his shoulders, the carriage of that fine body. But he didn’t recognize the loose dark curls that caught the breeze from the bay, the lightness of movement, the scarf looped casually around his neck.

 _Ronon?_

He came closer, and there was no doubt. He was grinning at John. “Sorry I’m late.”

John was staring. “Uh, yeah. Well, umm. This is different.”

“Yeah.”

“We _are_ going to talk about this,” John said. He held out his hand and Ronon pulled him to his feet. This close, he was even more beautiful. Without the intimidating dreadlocks, the softness of the t-shirt and scarf and the fluttering of the feather against his throat made him look younger than Sheppard had ever seen him. So different, and yet the eyes that looked into his were the same.

He collected his slightly scattered thoughts. “Okay, let’s head back before everything melts.”

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

They didn’t talk about it. Not until after they had eaten the steaks Sheppard had grilled and they had their second beers in hand. They sat on the deck and watched the sun set in brilliant shades of ochre and red. Then when the stars winked on one by one and the horizon was a scarlet thread between the ocean and the sky, Sheppard drew a deep breath.

“Why did you do it?”

Ronon thought of all the things he could have said, all the easy excuses about fitting in, or how the dreadlocks had been giving him headaches, or that it was just a whim. Looking at John, only the truth meant anything. “It was my past, weighing me down. Sateda is gone and it’s not going to come back, my people are dust and memories. I’m done with that. I chose to give my life for your people. I chose to follow you. From this time on, this is my home. You are my home.”

“A fresh start?” John’s voice was rough with emotion. He touched the unfamilar, silky curls as if they were fragile, precious.

“It’s hair. It grows.” But his own voice betrayed him, cracking a bit with his emotion. John’s eyes were brilliant, even in the twilight.

“God,” he breathed and buried his fingers deep in Ronon’s hair. His strong fingers cupped the back of Ronon’s head and he drew him down for a kiss. His mouth was hard, soft and hot at the same time, and Ronon loved the taste of him, the tensile strength of his body, the warmth of John’s fingers on his scalp. They would make love, and the past would no longer weigh him down. Ronon had found his way home, and they would make love ...

 _  
**The End**   
_

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: I think we all know that Jason Momoa cut his hair and that the plan to write it into the script of “Broken Ties,” was nixed. And then there was _that_ wig, which I hated. So, I wanted Ronon to cut his hair, to start fresh in his new home.


End file.
